Adelaide Literary Magazine No.55, November 2022

ADELAIDE

Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international
monthly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded
by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015,
the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfic-
tion, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles,
and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to
publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to
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A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação mensal
internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e
Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic
em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-
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Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais
assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudan-do os
autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais
vasta.
(http://adelaidemagazine.org)

Adelaide

INDEPENDENT
MONTHLY LITERARY MAGAZINE

Year VIII, No. 55, November 2022

ADELAIDE BOOKS
New York / Lisbon
2022

ADELAIDE
Independent Monthly Literary Magazine
Revista Literária Independente Mensal
Year VIII, Number 55, November 2022
Ano VIII, Número 55, novembro 2022

Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon
adelaidebooks.org

Editor-in-Chief
Stevan V. Nikolic

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For any information, please address Adelaide Books
at [email protected]
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ISBN: 978-1-958419-44-1
Printed in the United States of America





REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

CONTENTS

FICTION:
STRANGER IN THE LAUNDROMAT by Carlos Arce 7
OEDIPUS WRECKS by John Styron 11
WHEN WE START DATING GIRLS by Ted LoRusso 24
NOTHING I WOULDN’T DO FOR YOU by Samantha Price 28
FAMILY VACATION by Maia Perez 43
DRY by Nigel Pugh 46
THE AFFAIR by Bel Torres 48
UNFINISHED by Laurie Hollman 52
PASSIONS OF THE EMBASSYBOY by George Guledani 55
THE HILLS OF DON DILLI by Tan Bo Yan 73
HIBISCUS by Alan Massey 79
THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY by Jay Moran 85

NONFICTION:
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE UVALDE TEXAS SCHOOL
SHOOTING by Yun Xiang Zhang 89
ALL THE NEWS by Thomas Hackney 94

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HOW TO STEAL A SOUL by Jordan Souza 105
MEDITATION ON OUR TRUE LOVE STORY by Sandra Perez 108
THE ART OF OUR NECESSITIES by Melissa Knox 113
GOING TO INDIA by Lynne Golodner 118
HIGH SCHOOL ANGST by Joshua Abel 126
THE YEAR OF THE RAT BABY by Ajit Dhillon 129
BROWN by Violet Piper 139
NAMES, NAMES, NAMES by Jae-Hyun (Jesse) Cho 145

POETRY:
PERVERSION by Kristal Peace 151
THE DAY THE MACHINES CAME by John Linstrom 155
PLANET by Livio Farallo 160
IN THE BEWITCHED AVIARY by Pawel Markiewitz 169
FOREVER AUGUST by Linda Barrett 171
I HAVE MISSING PIECES by Nanette Rayman-Rivera 173
KILNS FANTASTIQUE by T.J. Masluk 182
TRICKSTER by Kiara Letcher 184
LEARNING A SONG by Jyothsna Phanija 191
LIFE NEVER STOPS DANCING by Russo Shanidze 198
DIXIE CUP by Grant Vecera 209
SEEK A TRUTH THAT HOLDS by Mark Vogel 215

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AT GOULD FARM by Daniel Senser 221
LESSONS FROM MY FATHER by Yetta Rose Stein 232
UNDER THE SUN by Robert Funderburk 237
PRODIGAL DAUGHTER by Don Narkevic 244

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FICTION
FICÇÃO



REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

STRANGER IN THE LAUNDROMAT
by Carlos Arce

Cayley struggled with the two heavy bags of dirty clothes. She made
her way down to the laundromat and searched for an unused washer.
She tossed her clothes into the washer and put on her earbuds. She
loved listening to 19870’s music, since childhood, it reminded her of
her mom on laundry days.

Cayley did not notice the hooded guy entering the room as she
daydreamed. His back was towards her, and he did not pay any notice
to her either.

The wind gained momentum and lightning flashes lit up the night
sky. This rain had better wait for me to finish the laundry.

Finally, she noticed the stranger. Cayley looked him up and down,
wary of being locked in with a man whose face she couldn’t see. That
was her biggest fear since childhood. She went to sit in the farthest
corner from the stranger. “God, please don’t let the lights go out too.”
She folded her legs to her chest and rocked back and forth.

In that instant, the lights went out as the lightning flashed over the
small building. He turned his head and glanced at her with a smile. I
hope she aint a crazy one.

“No!” Cayley yelled.
“Damn, this just got interesting,” the hooded man said.
“Open up, please!” She ran to the door and tugged at it in a panic.

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“Don’t worry. The release mechanism will kick in so you can open
it,” He said, but his assurance fell in deaf ears.

“Our Father, who art in…” She prayed. Her mind whirled with
distorted images of the stranger and unknown sounds from inside and
outside the laundromat.

“I knew I should have waited till tomorrow to do laundry,” He said.
“My phone, where did I drop my phone.”
“Lady stay put before you hurt yourself,” he said.
“No, you stay away from me,” she said. “Please, just let me be.”
This maniac lady actually thinks I want to do her harm. He shook
his head and wandered in the dark searching for her.
“What is that?” she said, rubbing her head after bumping into a
washer and small amounts of liquid flowed down her face.
That is what happens when you wander around in complete darkness,
you lunatic. He said as he tripped over a trash can.
“Oh, Jesus I think I am bleeding,” She said, panicking.
He followed her panic-stricken voice on his hands and knees. I think
I found her phone, now I just gotta find her.
She paused, sat still as she heard something almost metallic being
dragged on the floor. He has a knife, Jesus I am gonna die in the darkness.
“I found you,” He said. His hand bumped into her shoe and ran it
up her leg and then her arm.
“No,” she yelled, pulling her arm and leg away from him.
“Calm, the hell down, woman,” He said tightening his grip on her
arms.
“Let go, you damn degenerate,” Cayley yelled. She swung her arms,
landing a few scratches on the man.

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“Ouch,” He said.
“Let me go!” She kept saying.
“Lady, you are really beginning to piss me off now,” He said, drawing
her nearer to him and fully wrapping his arms around her.
“God, help me.” She bit down on his shoulder and dug her fingernail
into his neck.
“Ouch.” The man said.
“Please, please, do not hurt me.” Cayley said as tears ran down her
cheeks and onto his hoodie.
“I am…” He said but was cut off as he felt two strong hands grab
him by his hoodie and sent him crashing to the floor.
“What is happening?” Cayley asked.
“What the…,”He felt pressure fall on his back and shoulders. In that
instant, the lights came on and he heard two voices.
“Ma’am, are you o.k.?” a man in a security uniform asked Cayley.
“That degenerate was trying to kill me,” she said.
“I was only trying to help you and keep you calm, you ungrateful…”
the hooded man said. He tried to turn his head to see who was on top
of him, but a hand slammed his head back onto the floor.
“Stay down, or it will get worse, Jack,” The security guard said.
“My name is not Jack, and as I said I was just trying to help,” he said.
“Sure, you were, Jack, “ said the security guard.
“My name is Tou Nguyen. I am the new live-in manager of this
complex,” Tou said.
“What?” Cayley and the two security guards said.

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“Look, lady, you need to not be so quick to judge and think before
assuming things about people.” Tou said.

“I am sorry, I struggle with Cleithrophobe and strangers.,” she said,
“And after I hit something, I thought I was bleeding and that you had
caused it. I was panicking.”

“It took everything I had to stay calm, you lucky I am a gentleman,
crazy lady,” Tou said. “As for you both, I should reprimand y’all.”

I am now gonna be the crazy lady to this whole complex tomorrow
morning. Cayley picked up her phone and sat embarrassed as she waited
for her laundry to finish up.

“Guy, wait till everyone hears this crazy story tomorrow,” the security
guard said walking away and laughing.
Carlos Arce is an 8-year Navy veteran. He is currently studying online at
Fullsail University for a degree in Creative Writing.

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OEDIPUS WRECKS
by John Styron

Louisville, KY 1989
Frank is driving Bardstown Road toward the city, toward the interview,
toward the next logical step. From high in the sky, it seems, he can see
himself. This is how he often sees himself, from above, like God looking
down on a chosen son.

“He shall direct thy paths”—the old voice is there, the old language,
always King James. What’s the rest of it? “Trust in the Lord with all
thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Frank’s ex
once said his letters read like some sort of strange religious literature.
That summer before they were married. His mind glances back. The
longing. The long, lonely days. Him and God and the milk cows on a
farm at the edge of Bull’s Eye, his hometown in Missouri, her back at
MU finishing her English degree.

A horn honks from behind. The red light has turned green. He guns
it. Where were those verses from? Somewhere in Proverbs? It doesn’t
matter anymore. No more strange religious literature. Well, in a way—
copy for an ad agency. It’s just a different religion. The ex would get
that joke.

Tears well up. He bats them back. There was so much good. But
so much bad. “Irretrievably broken,” the judge read from the Decree
of Dissolution, final judgment on ten years of marriage, finally over
yesterday.

In times like these, God takes his old place in the sky, judging. In
times like these, Frank drives like a bat out of hell.

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He’s behind the wheel of a deep blue BMW 325i. Brand new six
months ago. God isn’t particularly pleased with the new Beemer. He liked
Frank better in the old rust-bucket Ford Galaxy back in the seminary
days. He liked Frank humble, praying that the Galaxy would actually
get him someplace, humble but proud, in that weird Fundamentalist
way, that certitude, that if God does not answer a believer’s prayer, it’s
because God has something better in store.

“Move it, Buddy,” Frank snarls and whips the Beemer around the
car in front of him.

Frank bought the Beemer without consulting God. It’s the type of
car the ex’s string of new men drove, six-figure-guys, all of them. And
today, Frank is not just driving the car, he’s wearing it. He’s wearing
it with the sunroof open hoping to blast a little springtime into his
thirty-four-year-old, wacked out brain before he gets downtown to the
interview. God is watching right down through the sunroof. And there’s
the preacher-boy-turned-yuppie, dressed for success in a professionally
laundered Oxford cloth, button down shirt, specifically not the typical
six-figure-guy-light-blue-or-white. It’s hot pink. A creative flare. In form,
a nod to the establishment. In function, a statement: I know the game,
but I’ll play it my way. Competing with the six-figure-guys? Yep. Pathetic.
From the Greek, pathetikos meaning “sensitive.” Root word, pathos,
“suffering” or “disease.” God liked him better as a seminary student
studying dead languages. Or as a Psych undergrad wrestling valiantly
with behaviorist ideas that made religious conviction sound like some
sort of mental pathology. There’s that root again.

He thinks: “Diagnosis, bi-polar. She’s on lithium now. I walked out
on a sick woman. Lame. But there was no hope. Her crazy made me
crazy. My crazy made her crazier. Which made me crazier still. Inter-
locking neuroses.”

There’s another one. Neuroses. From the Greek neuron, nerve, sinew,
tendon. Dead language, but the roots live. Like that eye in the sky.
Whatever. “God” is shorthand. “God” is a nerve, a tendon connected
to a dead past. The God who was not pleased with Frank’s jump from
seminary to the secular world five years ago and also took no pleasure
in his recent promotion: “Frank Gray, Creative Director,” his business
card says, as does the resume in his briefcase. That humble-proud God is

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now badgering him about this next move up. A new firm. New clients.
Potentially a new city. Lots more money. “Not six figures, my Dear,” he
says under his breath, “But I’m on my way.”

The car ahead slows, left blinker on. Frank swerves into the right lane.
The blare of a horn. He cut off a car in his blind spot. A quick glance to
the rearview. The driver is shooting him the bird. “Sorry,” Frank mouths
and accelerates away from his sin.

He thinks: “Gotta get a grip. I’m out there somewhere. Again.”
The traffic is a little crazy, the usual on Bardstown, sometimes
four-lane, sometimes three with a turn lane in the center. He’s on the
bohemian stretch that’s sided with bars, eateries of every description,
head shops, music stores, bookstores, the Uptown—the theater where
he fell in love with art cinema. The ex did, too. So many good memories
on this road. Also, the marriage counselor’s office. Bad memories there.
The worst.
Don’t even go there. He thinks: “Do the numbers. Let’s see. Current
salary, $65 thousand and then you throw in a few perks like the 401k
and health insurance and so on, and it adds up to about $70 thou. But
you work 12 or 15 hours a day, and weekends, lots of weekends. Say
70 hours a week, sometimes 80. Say, 70. Times 52 weeks a year—well,
say 50 because of vacation—but that’s still like 3,500 hours. So $70K is
more like 20 bucks an hour, which is pathetic. New job—they’re saying
up to $90K.”
He calms down some. The numbers technique usually works. Change
the stimulus. Change the response. But you can’t change the past. You
have to take control. Leave it to God and you get ten years of wedlock
and maybe six good months. But never consecutive. Well, maybe more
than six months. And when it was good, it was incredibly good. But
when it was bad, it was utter darkness, like that first real fight. First
college apartment. He thought they were having a Biblical discussion
about a woman’s role in marriage. She exploded. “Fuck the Bible! I
hate the Bible!” Ran for the bedroom. Slammed the door and locked it.
Bible talk back then was never really about the Bible. The door stayed
locked all night.

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Traffic stops. He lays on the horn. Then lays off, takes a deep breath,
and then another.

He was genuinely mystified at the beginning of the marriage. How
could God call him into the ministry and give him a wife, a beautiful,
smart, Southern Baptist girl, who hated the Bible? And how could he,
Frank, know so little about her before the two became “one flesh” as
the Bible says?

She was already leaving then. Maybe already gone. So many things she
said. How her words changed once they moved to Louisville where he
started seminary and she started climbing. Advertising. Then healthcare
marketing. He was proud of her. She liked the new genre of strange
religious literature he started writing—not letters to her but stories.
Anachronistic humor. A first century Capernaum fisherman with a Barco
Lounger and a VCR. Mary and Joseph driving home from Jerusalem
when they realize they forgot little Jesus. The stories made her laugh.
Still, where could they really take you?

Traffic is moving pretty well now. Twenty minutes till showtime.
They’ve seen samples of his work. Award-winning. Now they’re going
to see him. He’s going to nail it.

“You’re ambitious, Frank, but in a circle,” the ex once said. “You
don’t go anywhere.”

That was early in the separation. No. Maybe just before. It’s all a blur
now. Maybe about the time of her breast augmentation. Oh, yeah, she
was going places. Big tits to attract men of a type she claimed to despise.
The marriage counselor, Angus—what a jerk—said it all fit her family
script. Her dad a millionaire who gave her everything and nothing. He
once offered to make Frank a business partner along with his two sons.
Not his daughter. Revenge tits. That’s what they were.

“I feel guilty for being a girl,” she confessed to Angus. News to Frank.
Angus, in all his wisdom, decided individual sessions would be the best
way forward.

The memories are really spinning. Again. “Stop!” Frank says out loud.
“I’m sick of it.”

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Bardstown Road to Broadway. Tangible direction, immediate,
something to knock him off the gerbil wheel and back into the real
world. The behaviorists got a lot of things right. What you do, tangible
action, is who you are. Fake it till you make it? There’s some actual truth
wrapped up in the yuppie lie.

The subtle tones of teal in his silk necktie pop against the pink shirt.
His tortoise shell, horn rimmed sunglasses, lenses dark green, give him
a little bit of a Tom Cruise vibe. His haircut: business up front, party in
back—long, over his collar, blowing in the wind.

He looks cool in the Beemer. He feels cool. The power and agility. The
“Ultimate Driving Machine,” the ads say, and it zigs and zags around the
other cars almost as if the machine is responding to his thoughts even
before he makes a physical move. It’s a little like great sex. Something he
never had with the ex. “I hate your sex!” He hears the scream again, from
one night years ago, long before he realized the marriage was already
coming to pieces. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Did Tom, Dick, and Harry know what they were doing? Did Angus?”
Six months into the “you-have-to-get-your-mother’s-face-off-of-your-
wife” rhetoric, Frank slammed the door on Angus. “How ‘bout getting
my wife’s face off your dick!”

Rage closes the eye in the sky. Rage is relief. But pity the people in its
path. Available women—no shortage of them in the ad business, and
no shortage of interest in him once word of the split got around. Not
lovers. Just sex. Revenge? Therapy? Definitely messy—the relationships.
But his performance in bed? No complaints there.

He thinks for the millionth time: “Why did I marry her? It was almost
like some sort of childhood faith. You don’t know what you don’t know.”

Guilt? Plenty. But only in between women—victims—at least six in
the past year. Nobody right now. Make that no body. But he has one in
mind. And, of course, God is watching.

Traffic slows. He’s passing the Uptown—that portal of light, blasts of
art that answered prayers he didn’t even know he had. New films like The
French Lieutenant’s Woman and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

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Classics like Manhattan, one of Woody Allen’s best. And then, just a
month ago, Woody’s segment in the triptych, New York Stories. Woody
played Sheldon whose Jewish mother appeared in the sky, a giant head
hovering over a crowded city street. She starts yapping advice about his
love life. She gets everyone on the street into the conversation about
what Sheldon should do. The segment is entitled “Oedipus Wrecks.”
Frank laughed till he cried.

Tears roll down his cheeks. He’s laughing and crying. It’s been this
way for days. Grief. Relief. Clarity. Confusion. He thinks: “Why am I
looking for a new job? Another big change is the last thing I need. Or
maybe exactly what I need.”

Break it all down one more time. The pros and cons. List them out.
Assign a value to each item on each list. Add up both columns. The
highest total wins.

Except Frank keeps changing the values, making new lists. They’re
scattered all over the kitchen cabinets and coffee table in his condo,
along with half-a-dozen self-help books including Seven Steps to Your
Best Self, the book that introduced him to the “Ben Franklin Method
of Decision-Making.”

God noticed that He wasn’t even mentioned in that book.
Which would have bothered Frank, too, in the past. It would have
bothered him a great deal. Back when he actually believed he was a
chosen son, “fearfully and wonderfully made,” as the Bible says. Though
it also says your wonderfully made self has to be born again, made over,
cleansed, changed from the inside out. That’s how you become your
“best self.” “Lean not unto thine own understanding.” Pray and wait
for God to give you direction. Which is how he answered “the call”
into the ministry, a call that no longer exists. Which is how he got into
a marriage that no longer exists. Or does it? “What God hath joined
together, let no man cut asunder” and all of that.
He checks his wristwatch. Time is getting tight. He gooses the Beemer
and starts weaving his way between the lanes and the traffic. Taking
chances. It’s all a game of chances. A new job. It’s a big agency. Part of
a national agency. It might be a ticket out of town. A new city. A new

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start. The craving rises like lust for another body. And God is watching,
judging, displeased. Frank yanks the face of God off of his mother one
more freakin’ time and slaps himself back into the moment. A real world
question: “The interview. What are they going to ask?”

They’ve already seen his resume—work history, education. They’ll
ask about The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. How is that prep
for a Creative Director job in the top agency in the city? He’s had some
form of that question before. It’s bound to come up again.

“I once thought I’d be a preacher,” he’ll say. “I guess I’m a natural born
storyteller.” He’ll say it with a little aw-shucks in his voice. He’ll pause,
maybe stroke his chin. “I wasn’t cut out for the ministry. That’s the most
important thing I learned in seminary.” It’ll work. It has always worked.

Of course, it’s only half the truth. But hey, this is advertising. A deal
with the Devil? Maybe. A disappointment to Momma? Absolutely. She
so wanted her Frankie to be a preacher. She said so on the phone just a
couple of weeks ago. “I believe the hand of God is on your life. You’ve
still got a message, Frankie.”

She doesn’t want to hear the whole truth either. Which is that the
most important thing Frank learned in seminary is that God himself
made a deal with the Devil. It’s the deal-making God that follows Frank
around, the transactional God, the substitutionary-theory-of-atonement
God. A God who requires payment for sin. Legalistic and therefore
tricky. Yes, a tricky God who offers his own perfect son as ransom to
Satan for all sin of all time, then snatches him back at the last second.
Resurrection for Jesus. A stiff arm to the Devil. The birth of Christianity,
the church of cosmic co-dependence.

“Mom, if God is love, how can there be judgment? Hell?”
“Frankie, God is in control. That’s all I know. That’s what I believe.”
Two or three times over the years, that’s where the conversation started
and stopped. He couldn’t get past it. Past Mom’s theology, yes, but not
the old habits, the endless emotional bait and switch. She remained
in control and he a failure as substitution for something she couldn’t
satisfy in herself.

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The She-God liked Frank better long ago when Frankie Gray, the
charismatic preacher boy, the teenaged evangelist, used to tell the
God story as a love story, a true story of sacrifice and redemption that
resonated in every chapter and every verse of the Bible. What a ride! The
praise of the people, the assurance of God’s pleasure, the affirmation of
Frankie Gray’s calling. But really, the dopamine rush is what it was. That
makes so much more sense now. Temporal bliss. Not eternal. She got
her kicks, all right. But where was She when the crash came. Always the
crash. Then the nauseous craving for the next hit. That’s not a calling.
It’s chemistry. All mixed up with her theology, which is his, or was.

Another honk from behind. Another red light has turned green while
Frank was out in momma theology land. He stomps the gas pedal.
The Beemer jack-rabbits through the intersection. Angus’ office is in
the next block. The old hate burns. But he’d made progress. Is making
progress. And isn’t that just the way life is, such a mixed bag. You have
to take control.

Which he now suspects is why he kept writing those stories.
Re-framing the whole Biblical story, trying to save it from its handlers,
save himself from its handlers. The story is so deep in him. It’s laced
into his own “family script”—thank you, Angus—which, itself, is riven
with that tricky God doctrine, full of manipulation and substitution,
handed down, not from the empyrean, but from the early church fathers
seeking to impose control on a story that is only mystery at its core, like
a river in the wild, beautiful but dangerous, prone to flooding, full of
switchbacks, undercurrents, snags below the surface.

Frank glances at his watch again. It’s getting late. He gooses the
Beemer and passes a car on the right. The driver gives him a look like,
What the hell! Frank cuts back in front of him and starts angling for
an opportunity to pass the next car up. He’s doing fifty in a thirty-five.
He’s thinking how fast he’s changed. But not at all.

His eyes had opened to art cinema, opened to the wider art of
storytelling, at the same time all Christendom seemed to be in the
thrall of narrative theology. The story was the thing. Bring the cosmic
drama down to earth. He got involved with a Christian theater group.
Started writing monologues and short plays. The Good Samaritan as a
hitchhiker out on the interstate. The woman at Jacob’s Well as a truck

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stop waitress. The wicked servants who were cast into outer of darkness
go into scream therapy. He created faux advertising breaks between the
set pieces, ala A Prairie Home Companion. “Do you hunger and thirst
after righteousness? I know I do. Especially after a long Sunday service
when I’ve been righteous for two whole hours? Reach for Manna-Bites
from Manna-Co. They’ll keep the devil at bay while dinner is on its way.”

Strange religious lit? More like classic creative constructions. Old
stories in new clothes. Surprise twists that touch the heart. “Abruptions,”
they called them in the Ad Age creative symposium he’d sopped up
in New York City a couple of years back. Abrupt interruptions that
suddenly open the mind to a new way of thinking about some old
human need or desire.

His writing and performances had struck a chord. Soon, he was
traveling around the country to churches and conventions, five thousand
youth here, two thousand college students there. They loved what he did.

Was he selling Jesus the way Madison Avenue sells toothpaste? In
retrospect, pretty much. But at the time, the laughter, the applause—
straight to the veins.

As long as he didn’t really care about the people, their souls, and he
didn’t. Not individually. Not eternally. Not in the old heaven or hell,
tricky God way. Not in the blood of Jesus way. But in the way of his
own craving. And he led his listeners out into the shoals and swamps
of the river with little blasts of art answering prayers they didn’t even
know they had.

Another stop light. A brunette in a Miata convertible with the top
down. The light changes and he romps it, leaving her behind. She’s gotta
be checking him out.

He misses the audiences, no doubt. The attention, the cheering. Him
in the spotlight, oh yes, and the crowd out there in the dark riding the
currents of his stories and sketches to surprising places, satisfying a
hunger they shared without demanding blood.

Except Southern Baptists do demand blood. He’s threading his way
through the traffic thinking, again, about how he’d avoided certain
questions. The Baptists who hired him as a storyteller had questionnaires.

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Legalistic, tricky God questions. In fact, the denomination was coming
to pieces over exactly those kinds of questions. The cosmic drama
brought down to earth as ugly politics. A great divorce in-progress, the
love and judgment contradiction at the core of Christianity actualized.

“A contradiction at the core of Christianity?” The heretic storyteller, a
minor celeb in the Baptist world, had to lie or be out of work.

He passes another car and another. Like they’re sitting still. Like
historical markers on the road to a new life. Like old seminary friends
he’d left behind. All the storytelling travel had made school impossible.
The long absences were straining the marriage. Money was tight. His
G.I. Bill had run out. The old Galaxy was dying.

It was not God but the ex who then directed his path. He remembers.
The story behind the story on his resume. She worked at a small
advertising agency. Got him a couple of freelance copywriting gigs.
A brochure for an ophthalmology company: “The Eyes Have It,” he
wrote. A video script for the Kentucky Newspaper Advertising Bureau—
something about the power of print vs. electronic media: “Strong Silent
Type.” The money was decent; the approbation divine. The dopamine
hit. The hunger for the next one. Boom. He was off and running.

He leans to the right to check himself out in the rearview. They won’t
see the Beemer when he wheels in. But they’ll feel it when he walks in.
He’s gonna nail this interview.

The She-God is watching, talking to him. Advertising is sex without
love. It’s half- truths, not the whole truth. Product stories are satisfactions
with no demands.

Oh, but he’s got the vibe: Like AT&T, he knows how to reach out
and touch. If we talk about cost, it is so worth it. Because you, Mr. or
Ms. Consumer, are so worth it. Besides, “you deserve a break today.”

It’s not atonement. It’s not even a good substitution. But who really
cares?

He passes another car and races to make the next green light. He
rehearses his act. The questions are going to be all about the biz until
the end. Then: “What’s your passion? What really makes you tick?”

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“Demographic analysis,” he’ll say flatly without pause. “Defined
target markets. Consumer behavior. I like the nuts and bolts.” And
that will set up the next question, something like, “Are you sure you’re
a creative?” Then he’ll deliver: “At the end of the day,” he’ll say—and
they’ll like that phrase, “Solid market understanding drives the best
creative. That’s how you hit pay dirt. Get buy-in. And that’s my passion.
That’s what makes me tick.”

He’s five minutes from the parking garage. He’s going to make it.
For just an instant, a long, difficult conversation with the She-God
crowds in. It happened after a flight from Atlanta, across the Southlands,
over the region of the frontier revivals of the Second Great Awakening.
“Buy-in by the tens of thousands—emotional, ecstatic converts to
Christianity—a demographic cohort targeted by a message, finely tuned,
shaped by the socio-economic and political forces of the era that also
shaped those people. And boom. They bought it. Like the people of
first century Palestine when the right market forces aligned and later,
people across the Roman Empire. And people around the world ever
since. Like you, Mom.”
“Don’t get too big for your britches,” she said.
He's blowing through the intersection of Hawthorne Ave, the street
where his ex lives. He spots the house, a Porsche 911 parked in the drive.
He doesn’t see the traffic stopping in front of him. And suddenly, he’s
closing in on the rear of a ’69 Camaro. His skid is short, the squall loud,
the bending metal and breaking glass sickening. He sits for a moment.
Cars now passing on either side. He closes his eyes, then opens them
again. Steam is rising from under the hood of the Beemer.
He gets out. Scans the sidewalks on both sides for a pay phone.
“Fender bender,” he’ll say. “Gonna be late. Can we reschedule?” His
stomach is churning. He closes his eyes. Puts his hands to his temples.
Holds them.
The Camaro door opens. Frank’s eyes open. The driver unfolds, about
six-four. Black hair to his shoulders. Black beard. Black T-shirt with large
white block letters: DIE YUPPIE SCUM.

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He walks toward Frank with a look of utter scorn in his dark eyes.
Frank, a target audience of one.

“I’m …” Frank starts.
The man turns to the Camaro, the back bumper and trunk are
crunched in. He drops to his knees. “Ahhgg. I just finished rebuilding it.”
The anguish. He is truly about to cry. He bows all the way down to
the pavement and moans like a wounded lover.
“I’m so sorry,” Frank says.
The man rises. “Sorry ain’t even a beginning,” he growls. The accent
is rural Kentucky. He towers over Frank. The message on the T-shirt is
at eye level. It suddenly reads with a menacing drawl. The man’s fists
clench, calloused hands with fingers as thick as sausages.
Frank sees the two cars and the two men as from above in spite
of himself, the She-God yammering, the message on the T-shirt is no
accident. She quiets when the big man turns back to the Camaro and
drops to his knees. “Shit, man. I just finished this thing.” His voice
writhes with genuine pain.
Frank envies the man’s pathos. Is it the love of the Camaro? Is it the
looks he gets on the street? Is it a passion for restoration? Does it matter?
They exchange phone numbers and insurance information. The
Camaro tires squeal and the smashed taillights disappear down the street.
Frank stands alone in the passing traffic watching steam rise from
beneath the Beemer’s buckled hood like smoke from an unintended
sacrificial fire, and refuses to lift his eyes to the sky.

John Styron grew up in a small, rural town in the Missouri Ozarks,
exited for military service, college, grad school and the establishment of a
writing career as a media developer/scriptwriter for museums and visitor
centers. He returned to his hometown in 1994, continued to write, became

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a mom-n-pop Main Street businesses proprietor in partnership with his wife,
raised three kids, then retired to complete an MFA in Creative Writing at
Spalding University. His work has previously appeared in The Louisville
Review and Caveat Lector.

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WHEN WE START DATING GIRLS
by Ted LoRusso

Tonight is one of those strange times Rex is almost getting used to.
It’s the end of October, and he’s hiding behind the tree across the street
from his house. From here can see into his living room. It’s way past
midnight and the enormous lamp that fills most of the picture window
is still lit, all bright and scary. The last time the enormous lamp was on
this late was two years ago, the night his grandfather, Big Pop, died.
When Rex’s father, Hank, got the news of Big Pop’s death, he sat himself
in the chair by the enormous lamp in the picture window and smoked
almost a whole pack of Lucky Strikes. Normally Hank didn’t smoke.
He figured if anyone saw him smoking in the window, they’d think it
was the smoke making him cry.

Hank sits in the window tonight. He isn’t smoking, though. Tonight,
he’s just sitting there next to the big lamp, staring out the picture window,
waiting for Rex.

Across the street, behind the tree, Rex shudders. The air is Halloween
crisp, desperate and chilly. All Rex has on are his groovy hip-hugger bell
bottoms and his new polyester disco shirt, the one Jimmy Lynott secretly
gave him for his birthday. He has a jean jacket, but when the screaming
began he ran out of Jimmy’s room, forgetting it. He could go back for
it – Jimmy’s house is just up the block – but Mr. Lynott probably won’t
answer the door, and Jimmy is probably already being punished.

Rex flaps his arms for warmth. He longs for his bedroom. For his
robe. For a locked door. For a pillow over his head to blot out Mr.
Lynott’s yelling.

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A hunter in his blind, Hank spots movement across the street, behind
the tree. He squints, zeroing in on the movement. A paisley polyester
cuff flutters into view then disappears. Okay, here it is. Hank stands,
steadies himself, walks to the front door, and emerges onto the front
porch.

Rex. I see you. Get in here. Now.
Rex and Hank in the kitchen face each other across the table. Rex
fiddles with the little flap on the top of the Tupperware salt shaker; he
likes the satisfying ‘click’ it makes when he snaps it shut. He broke the
flap on the pepper shaker the day after his mother brought the pair
home after Mrs. Lynott’s Tupperware party.
You know what’s going on, don’t you? says Hank.
No.
John Lynott called here about an hour ago. Said you and Jimmy left
the dance early. Did you?
Yeah. We got bored.
Said you and Jimmy went back to Jimmy’s house. Said you and Jimmy
went up to Jimmy’s room. Did you?
Yeah. I mean, maybe. I think.
Said he went upstairs to check on you and Jimmy. Said he found you
and Jimmy doing something on Jimmy’s bed. I don’t want to know, but
what were you doing?
We were playing.
You’re sixteen. Sixteen-year old boys don’t play, they date girls.
We were practicing for when we start dating girls.
Practicing--?
Yeah. Practicing. This way we’ll know what to do when we start
dating girls.

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Hank scratches his elbow. He scratches it for almost a full minute.
Okay. Go to bed, he says.
Rex doesn’t move. He can smell his father across the table, a whiff of
that morning’s aftershave combined with sour whiskey and the sweat
of the day. He senses that he and his father will not sit like this again,
just the two of them, father and son, dad and his little buddy. He misses
him already. He rises, and heads out the kitchen door.
Wait, says Hank. Rex stops.
Don’t tell your mother about your practice sessions with Jimmy.
I won’t.
John Lynott said you and Jimmy can’t be friends no more. I agree.
But--
And take off that damn shirt.
But this is my birthday present from – Rex stops. He knows if he says
what he was going to say his father will spring from his chair and spout
things he doesn’t want to hear; but Hank is already up and spouting,
using his I’m-your-Father voice: Take it off. Take it off. Take. It. Off.
Rex unbuttons his shirt, slips it off, hands it to Hank. Hanks takes
it, balls it up. One sleeve hangs from the balled-up shirt like the errant
arm of a dead body.
Go to bed, says Hank.
Rex stomps out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Hank stands, tosses
the balled-up shirt into the garbage can, then opens the junk drawer and
pulls out a pack of stale Lucky Strikes. He sits and lights up. If anyone
looks in the kitchen window and sees Hank smoking, they’ll think it’s
the smoke making him cry.

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Ted LoRusso’s plays have been produced in Manhattan (Off- and Off-
Off-Broadway), Scranton, PA (Scranton Fringe Festival), and regionally
(Kitchen Theater, Ithaca, NY). His plays have been published by United
Stages, Third Coast, and Drama Notebook. He wrote the screen play for
Cracking Up (winner of the Venice International Film Festival Critic's
Choice Award for Best Screenplay and The New York City Underground
Film Festival People's Choice Award), which will be released on Blu-Ray
in 2023. He’s featured in The Right Words at the Right Time Volume 2,
Your Turn, edited by Marlo Thomas, Simon & Schuster Books. His poems
have been published by Pennsylvania Bards and Poets Live, and his lyrics
for “Attack of the Rock People” can be heard on Norah Jones’s alternative
album, El Madmo (Team Love Records). He lives in Scanton, PA.

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NOTHING I WOULDN’T DO FOR YOU
by Samantha Price

Lily finally recognized the waitress after her third glass of wine. The girl
had definitely dyed her hair blonde, but she still had the same gapped
tooth smile from high school.

“Excuse me.” Lily waved her over. The woman stopped in her tracks,
order pad in hand. She smiled and walked over to Lily’s table.

“Everything alright, miss?”
“This is going to sound crazy, but do you know Delilah Brown?”
Lily swirled her glass in her hand, the red merlot swishing around. Her
bracelets clinked together.
“Oh, I’m Delilah Brown.” The woman grinned.
Lily laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear, recently manicured
nails brushing the skin of her cheek. “You probably don’t remember me,
but we went to school together.”
The woman scrunched her eyebrows. They were unruly and large.
Several stray hairs stuck out between them, forming a slight bridge over
her nose. “Oh my god, Lily. I haven’t seen you since graduation. How
ya been?”
“Here and there.” Lily waved her hand in front of her face. “I work
in the city now for this finance company.”
“No kidding,” Delilah said. Lily felt some pleasure seeing the slight
envious glint in Delilah’s eyes. All throughout high school, Delilah

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tormented Lily, stealing every guy she wanted and always making fun
of the way she looked, especially the mole under her left eye.

“I couldn’t help but notice your new hair color,” Lily said.
“You like it?” Delilah grabbed a piece. The end’s were frayed and
damaged. It must have been an at home bleach job. “Of course, it can’t
ever be as beautiful as yours.”
Lily smiled. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“Are you meeting someone?”
“You remember Brian Johnson?” Lily said. Delilah nodded. Brian
had been the most popular boy in their tiny high school. All the girls
drooled over him. “We’re on a date.”
“Lucky duck.” Delilah giggled.
“He should be here soon,” Lily said. “I’m sure he’s just running a
little late.”
“I’m sure.” Delilah gave her a tight smile and wished her luck before
hurrying off to a different table.
Lily chewed the inside of her lip. She pulled out her phone. He was
only twenty minutes late. There was probably a lot of traffic coming
back from the city. She would know. Sometimes, it took her over an
hour to get home after work. Her mother always berated her when she
got in late, saying that she shouldn’t be working anyways because once
Lily found a husband and moved out, that would be his job.
A table over, a young woman sat with a man. She let out a joyful
laugh and touched his arm. He grinned at her and placed his hand over
hers. Lily ripped a bite out of her breadstick.
The wine glass was almost empty. Lily spun it around, the last bit of
liquid swirled. Three dark lipstick stains marked the glass. She felt sorry
for whoever had to wash those off.
“Hey, I’m real sorry, but if you don’t order anything, my boss is going
to ask you to leave,” Delilah said. Her smile was sympathetic, but her

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eyes were impatient. Lily checked her phone. Almost an hour and no
explanation.

“Fine.” Lily glanced at the menu, but nothing piqued her appetite.
She was less hungry than when she arrived. “Can you just get me the
house salad?”

Delilah didn’t write down the order before walking away. Lily held
her head up in one hand and tapped her fingers on the table. Her leg
bounced.

Lily pulled off the label from her beer bottle and rolled it up between
her fingers, creating tiny balls which she then tossed into her half full
glass of water. The salad she had ordered was pushed to one side, only
two bites taken out of it. The lettuce was soggy, the sharp smell of the
vinaigrette filling the air around it. She checked the time. An hour and
thirteen minutes. Lily gnawed on her thumb nail. An older woman
nearby stared at the empty seat across from Lily, eyes glued. When she
finally looked up, she gave Lily a tight smile and a pity nod, like she
understood what she was going through.

He wasn’t coming. She realized that about half an hour in, but now
she finally admitted it to herself. Her cheeks flushed red. She tried
to pinpoint a specific emotion among the whirlwind that crashed
through her body. Was she embarrassed, sad, angry? A different feeling
took over every second. The room felt cramped and her chair now was
uncomfortable to sit on. She pulled out her phone. She couldn’t ask her
Mom to pick her up, not after she had sounded so hopeful on the ride
over. A taxi was out of the question. If a stranger tried any small talk she
would burst, either in anger or tears. It was late. Eleanor was probably
asleep since she always got up so early.

“You said Brian Johnson was your date, right?” Delilah stood at the
other end of the table. Her apron was gone and she wore a faded red
sweatshirt. Her frizzy blonde hair now pulled into a loose ponytail with
a few strands framing her face. She actually looked decent.

“Supposed to be,” Lily said.

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Delilah held out her phone so Lily could see a string of text messages
on the screen, Brian’s name on top.

Lily stopped breathing. “What is this?”
“He just invited me to David Smith’s house. The one on the lake we
used to go to? Well, not we, mostly me. Were you ever invited there?”
Delilah held back a smile. She waited for Lily to respond.
“No.”
“That’s too bad.” Delilah frowned, but a joyful energy radiated off
her. Clearly, she thought she had won.
“You’re going?” Lily asked. She tried to wrap her head around this
whole situation. Was he really there or was Delilah just rubbing salt in
her wound?
“Maybe.” That was a lie. Why would she tell Lily if she wasn’t going?
“Want me to pass along a message?”
Lily smiled and tilted her head. “No.”
Delilah faltered a bit. “Um, well. Okay. See you around then!” She
turned and walked towards the door.
“Why did you tell me?”
Delilah turned back and raised her eyebrow in question.
“You didn’t have to tell me, but you did. Why?” Lily leaned her head
in her hands and tapped her fingers. Delilah’s eyes went wide and she
clutched her phone closer to her chest. Then, she grinned and cocked
her head.
“Just trying to be a good friend is all.” She walked out before Lily
could get the last word.
Inhale. Lily closed her eyes and held her breath. Five seconds. Exhale.
Ten seconds.

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“Fuck!” She slammed her fists on the table. Plates and glasses shook.
All conversations stopped. Everyone, including the staff, turned to face
her. Only the generic Italian music still played over the speakers.

Lily pulled out her wallet and threw all the cash onto the table. “Sorry
everyone.” She pulled on her sweater over her black dress and stormed
out. She texted Eleanor just as the door closed behind her.

Lily sniffed and dragged the sleeve of her sweater across her nose. A
gob of snot left a streak along the fabric. Around her, the streetlamp’s
light reflected off all the puddles left over from the rain. Headlights
illuminated the rest of the street. She sniffed again. Her eyes ached
from the tears she tried so hard to hold back. She pulled the cashmere
sweater, the nice one she saved for nice occasions, closer around her.
She curled her hands into fists and grabbed the ends of the sleeves. The
red heels she wore dug into the backs of her feet. She shifted from left
foot to right foot in an attempt to ease the pain. A car drove by, closer
than the others, and splashed water from a puddle onto her stockings.

“Perfect,” Lily said. She pulled out her phone again. 10:32. Ten
minutes since she sent the text. “Hurry up, Ellie.”

The door to the restaurant opened behind her. Light piano music,
laughter, and the clattering of silverware on plates released into the night.
The smell of marinara and garlic wafted through the street and into her
nose. The couple walking out stopped their conversation to look at her.
They averted their eyes and continued down the sidewalk.

The curb was wet and cold, but it was such a relief to sit down. The
freezing, dirty water soaked into the back of her dress and made her
butt wet. It was still better than standing in her high heels. She tapped
her fingers on her knees and glanced down the street. She brought her
thumb to her mouth and chewed off the manicured white tip.

Another car drove by, headlights shining in Lily’s eyes. She squinted.
The rusty pickup drove past the restaurant, but stopped short. It backed
up.

“Hey, stranger. Need a ride?” Eleanor leaned out the window, one
arm out. Her dark, tight curls were pulled back into a bun, her typical

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look. Her red flannel, rolled up past her elbow, contrasted nicely with
her dark skin.

“About damn time.” Lily pushed herself off the ground and wiped
the dirt off her butt. She jumped over a puddle and rounded the truck.
She tugged open the passenger door and climbed in, careful to watch
the ledge because it was a bit loose. Eleanor drove off once the door
was closed and Lily was buckled in. Lily closed her eyes and inhaled the
familiar scent of cigarettes and artificial pine coming from the three tiny
green trees hanging on the rearview mirror. Each one a different shade
of green with the newest addition distinctively darker than the rest.

“You’re an angel. I was so not in the mood to call my mom and have
her come pick me up.” Lily kicked off her shoes. Her skin breathed.
There was the start of a blister on her left heel. She leaned back into
the seat, letting the gentle rocking of the truck surround her like a hug.
Eleanor took a left and sent the bag of empty beer bottles flying around
the back seat, the glass clinking together.

“You said you were getting rid of those last week.” Lily opened her
eyes and glanced over at Eleanor. Her friend laughed, eyes squinting
and chubby cheeks protruding. Lily smiled.

“Maybe someday I’ll get around to it. Or maybe they’ll be here until
the end when Bertha finally craps out on me.”

Eleanor looked both ways before crossing an intersection. “I assume
the date didn’t go well?”

Lily snorted. “That’s an understatement.”
“Brian seemed so nice in school. What did he do?” Eleanor glanced
at Lily every so often. “Was he rude to the waitress? Did he eat with his
mouth open? He’s not a democrat, is he?”
“He didn’t show.” Lily gripped her thighs. If he ever did actually show
his face to her, she wasn’t sure she would be able to control herself.
Eleanor slammed on the brakes. The bag of beer cans hit the back
of Lily’s seat. She jolted against her seatbelt, the strap pushing against
her chest.

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“Hell was that?” Lily asked.
Eleanor fully faced her now, eyebrows scrunched together and mouth
agape. She always did that whenever she was pissed off. “He didn’t
show?”
“Didn’t even text me.” Lily shook her head and readjusted her seatbelt.
“Piece of goddamn shit he is.”
Eleanor slammed her fists on the steering wheel. That was the angriest
Lily’s ever seen her. “Scumbag.”
“Wanna know the worst part?” The fiery anger she had been holding
back all night started to spew out, fueled by the encouraging look on
Eleanor’s face. “You remember Delilah Brown?”
“That weird girl from chemistry?”
“She was my waitress. And,” Lily leaned closer. Eleanor followed,
waiting for her to spill the juicy details. “Brian invited her to a party at
the old lakehouse.”
“He invited her?”
“During our date! I was eating a salad and she came over to show
me his messages.”
“Did she know he was your date?”
Lily nodded slowly. Eleanor shook her head.
“She’s a bitch and he’s an asshole. All men are.” Eleanor started driving
again. “That’s why I haven’t been with one in three years.”
Lily laughed, actually laughed, for the first time all night. “You haven’t
been with one cause you scare them all off.”
“Ain’t my fault they can’t handle me and Bertha.” Eleanor patted the
top of the truck’s dashboard. “Sorry about the brake thing.”
“S’okay.” Trees flew past the front window as Elenor got them back up
to speed. She bit her lip in concentration. Her flannel was unbuttoned
and she wore a white tank top underneath. Her boots had mud caked

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on them from working out in the rain. Her hands, now gripping the
steering wheel a bit too tight, were dry and cracked. The only feminine
thing about her were the tiny gold star earrings Lily bought for her
tenth birthday.

“Thanks for picking me up. I really appreciate it,” Lily said.
“No way was I about to leave you stranded like that.”
Lily turned back to the window. The pine trees on the mirror bounced
off one another. “You do too much for me.”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Lily opened the window. The cool air pushed her hair out of her face.
It felt nice.
“Mind if I put on some music?” Eleanor asked. Lily nodded her head.
Some strands of her hair flew around her face.
Eleanor turned on the radio to a late night talk show. She pressed a
few buttons before landing on one station. The Golden Oldies.
“An Ellie classic,” Lily said. Eleanor put the blinker on and turned
onto a smaller dirt road. The truck lurched over a few rocks, but it was
nothing she couldn’t handle. There were more trees here, blocking out
the moon’s light. A thick grove stood along the road. On the other side,
an open field surrounded by a wooden fence stretched out.
No matter what time it was or how far away, Eleanor always helped
Lily when she needed it. Her heart constricted. Her stomach tingled.
A good tingle.
“I love this song.” Eleanor brought Lily out of her thoughts. It took a
few moments for her to place the familiar guitar chords. “Johnny Cash
is basically the soundtrack to my life. It’s like he wrote his songs just
for me, ya know?”
“I do know, cause you never shut up about Johnny Cash.”
Eleanor turned the radio up. She sang along. When the song reached
the chorus, Eleanor pointed at Lily, dedicating the performance to her.

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Soon enough, her off key vocals drowned out the actual song. Lily
snorted at the exaggerated hand movements and dramatic gestures. A
few curls fell out of the bun she wore. The freckles on her face popped
against her skin, especially on her nose. Most of her freckles were on
her nose.

“Alright, you can stop now.” Lily jokingly hit Eleanor’s arm. “I get it.
You love Johnny Cash.”

Eleanor turned the music back down. “I don’t just love him. I want
to be him. Singing onstage with a guitar, thousands of fans yelling
and cheering for me. My name on billboards and stadium signs. Man,
wouldn’t that just be heaven?”

“For you,” Lily said. “I just wanna have a family with whoever I marry
and settle down in a big house.”

“What about your job?” Eleanor asked.
“It’s nice. Keeps me busy. But it’s more of a temporary thing.” Lily
put her hand back out the window. A few fireflies danced around in
the distance.
“So what, you’re just gonna quit as soon as you get married?” Eleanor
turned the music off. “Did your mom tell you to do that?”
“I always planned to do that, even when I was a kid.” Lily curled her
hand inward and extended it again. She let the air intertwine with her
fingers.
The gentle hum of the truck was soothing for Lily. She knew this
hum well. Whenever Eleanor took her somewhere or the two of them
just went for a drive, this hum was there. Her eyes felt heavy.
Eleanor slowed the car down and pulled over. Pine trees and shrubs
surrounded both sides of the road.
“Last I checked I didn’t live in the woods.” Lily said.
“He’s at the lake house, right?” Eleanor ran her teeth over her lower
lip.

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“That’s what Miss Delilah told me.” Lily rolled her eyes. Eleanor
started the car up, but instead of continuing on, she turned around.
“What are you doing?”

“Don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for a swim.” Eleanor
grinned.

“What have you done with Ellie,” Lily said.
The two drove on, albeit a bit faster than before. Lily’s heart pounded.
Eleanor took a corner a bit too wide, and they ended up on a dirt road.
She slowed down, almost like she was sneaking up on something. A
large house came into view, the moon reflecting off a lake just behind
it. Several cars were parked along the driveway and on the lawn. Some
house lights were on, but most of the rooms were dark. Eleanor turned
off the headlights and shut down the car.
“What are we doing here?” Lily asked. Eleanor put her finger to her
lips and shushed. The two got out of the truck. They both closed their
doors, gently and quietly, at the same time.
The dirt driveway was muddy. Puddles from the night’s rain littered
the road. Lily was still barefoot, only her thin stockings protecting her
feet. Some of the icy dirt found its place between her toes. Still better
than wearing heels. She hopped over a couple of smaller puddles. As they
neared the house, laughter and splashing came from the backyard. The
smell of the lake, the water and the dirt, mixed with the distinct scent
of weed. Several silhouettes danced and ran about. Two of them stood
close to each other. It was too far to make out any faces.
“What’s the plan?” Lily whispered.
Eleanor stopped. “I’m not sure.”
“This was your idea.”
“It’s more like a spur of the moment situation.”
Lily scoffed and folded her arms. The two stood in the driveway facing
each other. Eleanor looked anywhere but her face. She pulled out her
lanyard, the one with the truck’s key on it, and swung it around. She
caught the keys in her hand and stared at them.

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“Do you know which car is his?”
No, Lily thought. But then she remembered something from her
and Brian’s text conversation last week. He wouldn’t shut up about how
he finally got his old Mustang to start working again. It was a classic,
a beauty. He made sure to mention that part at least five times. Lily
crouched down and walked towards the parked cars, careful to keep to
the shadows. She scanned the cars on the makeshift parking lot.
“There.” she pointed. Eleanor walked up next to her. She was so warm.
“Which one?” Eleanor asked.
“The red one with the white stripes down the middle.”
“The Mustang?”
Lily nodded. Eleanor moved towards the car. It was parked in the
middle, closer to the front of the house. The window above it remained
dark. Lily followed. She squatted down next to Eleanor who ran her
hands over the hood.
“Baby, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” she said.
“Stop apologizing to the car,” Lily said. Laughter rang up through
the night. She whipped her head, but no one was there.
Eleanor took a deep breath. “It’s for a good cause.”
The light from the room above them turned on. Lily grabbed Eleanor’s
arm and pulled her down. Her skin was warm and soft. They sat with
their backs to the car, frozen. The light turned off.
“Shit.” Lily let go of Eleanor’s arm. “Do it quick.”
Eleanor put the tip of her key to the door and held it there. Then,
she handed it to Lily.
“You do it.”
Lily grinned and grabbed the keys. Without hesitation, she put the
metal tip to the car and dragged it. She did it again. And again. And a
few more times for good measure.

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“Should I write something on it?” she asked. Eleanor grimaced at the
marks, but smiled at Lily.

“Draw a penis. Since he’s such a dick.”
Lily let out one single, loud laugh. It echoed through the yard. The
conversations by the lake stopped. She held the key, the sharp metal
digging into her palm. The light turned back on.
Eleanor grabbed Lily’s hand and pulled her up. They raced across
the driveway, feet flying over the puddles and rocks. A man behind
them yelled, but she couldn’t make out what he said. Eleanor took the
keys from Lily and pushed her towards the truck. Lily jumped in and
slammed the door shut. Eleanor started the car up and reversed out of
there. Tires screeched. Several figures ran towards them, but they soon
disappeared behind the trees. The car jerked onto the pavement and
Eleanor booked it out of there.
Lily clutched her chest. She hadn’t done that much exercise in months.
A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead. She took off her sweater.
Eleanor cackled and hooted next to her.
“You were amazing.” She beamed at Lily. Sweat covered her face. She
shimmered.
“You’re a crazy bitch.” Her heart pounded and blood rushed through
her veins. She imagined the text Brian might send her, and how she
would deny any involvement.
“Serves him right.” Eleanor slowed down to the speed limit and pulled
back onto the main road. Lily opened her window again, the night
breeze cooling off her face. She stuck her hand out and moved it with
the wind. She thought about how mad Brian would be when he saw his
car. How devastated he would feel. She grinned.
Soon enough, Eleanor pulled up next to a big white house. All the
lights were off except for the kitchen. Lily’s mom was still up, waiting
for her. Waiting to hear about how this man her mother so graciously
set her up with was the one. That she would finally get married and
move out, just like her younger sister did last year.

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Eleanor put the car in park and turned it off. She turned in her seat
to face Lily. “I was thinking. About what you said before. You don’t
aim high enough. You’re so smart and talented. You could really make
something out of yourself. Why just settle?”

“You’re still thinking about that?” Lily gathered her sweater and shoes
off the floor. “It might be settling for you, but it’s what I’ve always
wanted. A shit ton of kids to raise and take care of.”

“You can have a family and still have goals.” Eleanor picked at a scab
on her hand.

“Don’t do that.” Lily placed her hand on Eleanor’s. “You’re gonna
make it worse. It’ll never heal.”

Eleanor didn’t move. A hot blush fell across Lily’s face. She pulled
her hand back and coughed. Eleanor stared at the floor. Lily cleared
her throat.

“I guess I’ll be going now. Mom is waiting for me.” Lily put her hand
on the door handle. “Thanks for driving.”

“Can I tell you something?”
Lily pulled her hand back. “Anything.”
Eleanor faced forward and placed her hands on the steering wheel.
She opened her mouth. Then closed it. She inhaled through her nose.
“You’re my best friend.”
“Obviously.”
“And you’d accept me no matter what.” Eleanor stared ahead, not
even a glance in Lily’s direction.
“What are you gay or something?” Lily poked her in the arm and
laughed, but it died in her throat when she saw the tears in Eleanor’s
eyes. She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “Oh.”
“Lily.”
“Shit.”

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“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Because it’s not just—” Eleanor grasped the steering wheel. “I love
you.”

There was only numbness throughout Lily’s body. The only sensation
was a tingling in her stomach.

“Like you said. You’re my best friend. And I’ll help you with all this.
We can get through it together.”

“No.” Eleanor said loudly “No. I am in love with you. Get it?”

Lily reached out her hand but pulled it back. Eleanor watched from
the corner of her eyes. “You aren’t.”

Eleanor finally looked over at her. Her eyebrows scrunched and a
wrinkle appeared on the bridge of her nose. “Are you trying to tell me
how I feel?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because I’ve thought a lot about this and I’m pretty sure I have
feelings for you.”

“Okay.”

“And I think you love me, too.”

“I’m not gay.” Lily slammed her hand on her thigh. She gathered her
things back in her arms. “I’m not gay.”

The light from the front house reflected off Eleanor’s watery eyes. And
as Lily took in the deep sadness etched on Eleanor’s face, she knew she
would never erase that image from her mind.

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“Maybe you’re confused. Maybe not. I don’t know. You can choose
to feel those things, but I don’t want any part of it.” She shifted closer
to the car door.

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor closed her eyes. A few tears fell down her cheeks.
“Something about seeing you like this tonight. All I wanted to do was
make you happy.”

“Because that’s what friends do.”
Eleanor groaned and lowered her head onto the steering wheel. Lily
grabbed the door handle. Crickets chirped outside. She chewed the
inside of her lip.
“Lily?” Eleanor lifted her head.
“I have to go.” Lily opened the door. “Mom’s waiting for me.”
“Wait,” Eleanor said.
Lily jumped from the truck and landed on the driveway. A few pieces
of gravel embedded themselves into the bottom of her feet. She held
onto the door, heels in one hand and the sweater draped over her arm.
From the window, her mother pulled back the kitchen curtains. Lily
slammed the door shut and ran barefoot towards the house.

Samantha Price is a recent MFA Creative Writing graduate from Fairfield
University.

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